


To You, For Her

by Val_Creative



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Bittersweet, Canon - TV, Family, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Lyra's World (His Dark Materials), Major Character Injury, Minor Dr Carne | The Master/Charles | The Librarian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 12:37:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21338365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: Each word grits out through Lyra’s teeth, stained in anger. Anger born in the years of neglect and disappointment and loneliness.
Relationships: Lord Asriel & Stelmaria, Lyra Belacqua & Lord Asriel, Lyra Belacqua & Pantalaimon
Comments: 8
Kudos: 116





	To You, For Her

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Glove23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glove23/gifts), [anxiouss_princess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anxiouss_princess/gifts).

> **SPOILERS WARNING.**
> 
> I just love Asriel and Lyra. I love gen. I love this yelling and feral and chaotic family. Also thank you guys for the comments on the last fic! That really made me feel welcome to the fandom! 💜💜💜 I would love to hear anyone's thoughts on this one and I'm dedicating it to Conner and Rachel who I sort of dragged into this mess.

*

Lyra hates baths.

Even more than every bit of her getting scrubbed down clean, she hates when Mrs. Lonsdale parades her around Jordon College. As if Lyra is more of a fanciful, bright spectacle than a little girl. Mrs. Lonsdale is both her governess and the Housekeeper. She stiffly walks Lyra out, grasping their hands together, pointing out how disobedient and grubby Lyra is.

She's _ruined_ her curls, Mrs. Lonsdale tuts, petting her fingers into Lyra's dark strands. The dress, a somber and grey-almost-black with ivory-lace collar, has been picked to _threads_ by Lyra's fingernails and her newly polished flats appear _scuffed_.

Pantalaimon whispers out something, burrowing himself as a mouse into the front dress-pocket. Lyra only hangs her head, pouting, trapped by Mrs. Lonsdale's hand. She met with Dame Hannah Relf, Head of St Sophia's College, who scrutinised Lyra with a great amount of intensity. Lyra merely looked at her own feet and mumbled answers to the Dame's questions, itching at her nose while lying about her rigorous studies. If she approved of her then Lyra would attend as soon as she was old enough.

There will be a formal dinner for the arrival of several college Heads in another night, as well as dancing. Or so says Roger overhearing this from servants appointed to preparing and cleaning one of the more ancient buildings to Jordan College.

It will mean _another_ bath, Lyra realises in horror. More of those rough, painful bristles while Mrs. Lonsdale combs out her hair.

By some chance of fate or _whathaveyou_, she spots Lord Asriel marching away from Palmer's Tower. Lyra's heart flutters. No-one told Lyra that her uncle had returned from his far, far travels. She tears away from Mrs. Lonsdale, running after him. Her governess shouts indignantly after Lyra. Her daemon retriever barks sharply, once, twice, giving chase to Lyra but shortly.

Mud slops onto Lyra's shoes and her pearly, thin hose, as she hurries off the grass and onto the steps leading from the Observatory. Pantalaimon, having already turned into a white-breasted kestrel, soars high above Lyra's head.

"Uncle!"

Lord Asriel doesn't seem to acknowledge her, carefully and laboriously making his way down. His snow leopard daemon by his side, glancing up at him intently. He's in a pair of woolen slacks and a plum-colored, thickly knitted jumper under his things. His beard rather full, its hairs dark and gleaming with pinpricks of silver. She has no idea how old he really is, but he must be old.

"Uncle! Uncle!" Lyra yells, panting as she bounds to him on the dirtied, paved steps. Her eyes narrowing. "Didn't you hear me?"

"Yes, I have heard you. Leave me in peace," Lord Asriel insists, groaning lightly.

"Why do you look like that?"

"Like what?"

"Warm." She stares at him with mounting curiosity. "All red and sweaty in your face."

He clutches himself suddenly under his leathered jacket, brow twitching as Lord Asriel makes it to the bottom-most, outdoor step, easing down. Perhaps he is tired, Lyra guesses. Exploring for so long might make anyone so tired they can barely walk.

"Don't you have lessons, child…?"

Stelmaria sways for a moment as she leaps gracefully to Lord Asriel's feet, giving an irritable and quiet mewl.

"I've done them," Lyra announces importantly. For once, she's not lying. She matches his pace, hands tucked behind her and walking backwards to face him. "Did you know they used to pull teeth from the mouths of dead soldiers for use as prosthetics?"

"That sounds… completely horrid…" Lord Asriel grumbles, breathing hard.

She shakes her head.

"I think it sounds fascinating."

"Then you're completely horrid as well…"

"Is that what my mother and father said about me? Before they died?" Lyra asks, knowing she shouldn't press the matter like this. Her uncle never liked speaking about his dead brother. But she knows so little.

She never knew what her mother's favorite colour was. Or how she and Count Belacqua fell in love. It must have been a grand party near a bluff of woods and moonlight, Roger says. They must have met in a room full of strangers draped in beautiful, golden silk. Their eyes must have landed on each other through their smooth, porcelain masks like it was meant to be.

Pantalaimon feels Lyra's grief swelling inside her, dropping onto her shoulder gently and turning into a pine marten, nuzzling in Lyra's hands cradling him to her heart. "You must miss my mother and father so much, Uncle."

Lord Asriel's upper lip curls in disapproval, and he sniffs at the mention of 'father' which Lyra regards suspiciously.

"You've ruined your nice dress… go get cleaned…"

"Not until you've told me your adventures!" Lyra raises her voice, throwing a fit. "I've waited all this time and you don't even-!"

_"…before…"_

He falls forward, his blue irises rolling to their whites. Lord Asriel collapses into a heap on the fieldstone-walkway, his skull bouncing heavily. Lyra watches it happen like she's been held forcibly underwater, trapped, incapable of struggling against it.

"Oh no! Lyra!" Pantalaimon says apprehensively. He glances to Stelmaria collapsed, growling weakly, her breathing fatigued.

And just like that, she's free of the disorientating sensation. Pure adrenaline rises through her body. "_UNCLE_!" Lyra screeches, getting down beside him in her mud-flecked, grey dress. Her curls trembling. "_WAKE UP! PLEASE! YOU HAVE TO WAKE UP_!"

"Lyra, miss!" One of the scullery women races down the stone-steps, clutching her aprons. "What in the heavens above—!?"

"He fell over!" Lyra nearly sobs in her distress. "I dunno what happened!"

"You stay right there, miss! I'm going to find the Master."

She nods, still kneeling down, fingers clenching helplessly over the walkway. More than anything, Lyra wishes she could do _something_. Wake him. Touch him. He doesn't approve of hugs or anything like that, but they're family, and she's not going to hug him. Lyra just wants to be sure he's alright. With some difficulty, she grunts and rolls her uncle over onto his back.

Blood wells out of Lord Asriel's sweater, darkening the plum.

"Oh no…"

"Pan, is he dead?" Lyra asks tearfully, so urgently that he quivers along with her.

"He's breathing. I think." Pantalaimon nuzzles himself against Lyra's cheek, his fur hot and real. "It's alright, Lyra. It'll be alright. "

*

A group of men surround Lord Asriel, taking him.

Lyra points out the blood, following into the infirmary building until a Scholar blocks her in the entrance. She glowers, and at his opossum daemon glaring at her, but says nothing. She's not in the mood for getting dragged off and locked in her room.

One of the Scholars acting as a physician beckons for her, dismissing the other. She remembers him. He's got tufts of reddish hair and amber-brown eyes. Freckles. He treated her ankle when she was younger and much less skilled on the roof. He spoke kindly to her even when Lyra thrashed from the pain and hit him on the jaw. "What's happened?" she questions impatiently.

"An infection, I'm afraid," he sighs, wiping his hands. "A rather nasty infection growing within his opened stomach-wound. Lord Asriel must have not noticed." Lyra doubts that somehow. "Do you know how he obtained this wound?"

"No," Lyra confesses. "He didn't say anything."

"I suppose so. Probably didn't want to worry your head about it."

Lyra's expression goes vacant. "He doesn't care."

"Now, now," the Scholar chides firmly. "You mustn't speak that way about your uncle—"

"_—he. doesn't. care_." Each word grits out through Lyra's teeth, stained in anger. Anger born in the years of neglect and disappointment and loneliness. Pantalaimon, as a bobcat, spit-hisses and yowls in warning from the ground.

And, naturally, the Scholar doesn't bat an eyelash.

"That's enough of that. Off you go." He shoos Lyra further in the corridor, his barn owl daemon flapping her wings aggressively.

*

She tries to see Lord Asriel again before nightfall, but there's more Scholars. They won't allow her in. Lyra already knows this and knows it's unfair. She bids her time, crouching on the ledge-tops and out of sight. Mentally timing the rounds.

Eventually, they all disappear. Lyra crawls in through the window, grimacing at the small but noisy creaks.

The first thing she sees is a pile of blood-soaked rags and a washing basin. A tray of medical tools gleaming in the yellowing sunlight. "Over here," Pantalaimon murmurs, becoming a snowy ermine and clawing her shoulder quickly as Lyra whirls around.

It's a sight she'll never forget in her life — her uncle, powerful and feared and respected, sprawled out on the infirmary cot.

_Vulnerable._

Lyra didn't imagine such a thing to be associated with Lord Asriel. He didn't waver from his purpose. He didn't negotiate and didn't lose a fight and didn't cry, and he certainly never passed out in the middle of Jordan College where anyone could see. Especially his niece. If she wasn't so heartsickened and aghast, Lyra would be entirely mesmerised by this fact.

(And she doesn't know what to do.)

"We shouldn't be here…"

Pantalaimon scampers over from Lyra's right shoulder to her left, nervous, as she approaches the cot. Lord Asriel has a kind of bloodless flush to him, making his features seem gaunt under his full, unshaven beard. He's wrapped in linen bandages and covered in smelly healing ointments. Lyra can see the nest of dark chest-hair all over Lord Asriel as if he's a kind of human bear.

"Lyra…"

"Nonsense," she says curtly, tilting up her nose. "We're his family."

Before she can reach out, perhaps to shake him and see if he responds, Lord Asriel shudders, waking up. His bright blue eyes fly open, bulging. Lyra gasps, backing up and nearly sending Pantalaimon flying too.

"_Stel…maria…"_ His voice sounds weak, worried.

A loud but exhausted growl answers him. Stelmaria heaves herself up, wobbly at first, resting down on her hindquarters.

"Uncle, are you alright?" Lyra demands. She ignores the plain look of confusion and mistrust.

"What… are you doing here…?"

"I told you… your injuries were serious…" Stelmaria mutters, yawning and exposing her glistening, monstrously large jaws.

"It's fine…" Lord Asriel slowly realises where he is, looking more and more displeased. "He's dead. That's the end of it…"

Lyra has _no_ idea what he's talking about.

"They said you had a wound. It got infected."

"Nonsense…" Lord Asriel says curtly, lifting himself to his elbows. With a twinge of pride, Lyra recognises he says it the same way she had. And then she recognises, internally panicking, that Lord Asriel attempts to get off the cot.

"You—You mustn't!" Lyra hollers, shoving on the uninjured parts of his front until he halts. "You're not well yet!"

He usually would thump her for disobedience, but Lord Asriel only makes a surly and frustrated noise. His hands seize onto Lyra's forearms roughly, helping stabilise himself as he drops himself on the cot's edge. "I don't take orders from you…"

"I didn't think you took orders from anyone," Lyra mutters, waiting for him to release her before heading for the water pitcher.

When she's not looking, Lord Asriel's face breaks into a pleasant half-smile.

"Indeed…"

She shows him the water pitcher.

"No, no," he refuses. "Where's the brandy, Lyra…?"

"There's no brandy."

Lord Asriel grumbles a string of exploitatives, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I had a wine bottle down in the cellar," Lyra blurts out, oddly excited to tell him about her first drink. Even if she did spit it up. It's worth it to see him chuckle aloud, almost as if in a slow-moving, feverish delirium. He lies back down, clutching his wound.

_"Of course you did…"_

Lyra furrows her brows, concerned. "Are you sure you're alright?"

_"Mm…"_

"Let him sleep, girl…" She startles, peering down to Stelmaria addressing Lyra this time, resting her enormous head to her paws. Lyra blushes fiercely. Her uncle's daemon sounds gruff towards her, but also thoughtful and soft.

There's no blanket to throw over Lord Asriel, so Lyra picks at her dress-hem and solemnly steps away, watching him.

"Lyra…?"

Stelmaria's tawny eyes blink calmly.

"Be safe…"

Her heart pounds frantically, and Lyra doesn't understand the motherly sort of tone in Stelmaria's words. She hoists herself back onto the window-sill with Pantalaimon as a moth, crawling past the glass-bracer and shutting everything behind her.

*

Lyra hates formal dinners.

She gets her wrist pinched for slurping, courtesy of Mrs. Lonsdale. Another pinch for gulping down her water too fast and for deliberately avoiding the hawkish gazes of the other esteemed Heads of the nearby colleges. Pantalaimon cringes.

Roger brightens her spirits by popping up every so often, making grotesque, tongue-lolling faces behind Father Heyst.

(One of the stewards discovers him, boxing his ear.)

*

Most of the guests depart, but a few remain.

There's several Scholars living in Jordan College who play musical instruments as an orchestra, and they all play together.

Lyra stares up the ancient, glass ceiling right above the Ballroom as she enters, enthralled by how high it goes. They dressed her in a simple, fitted gown in navy identical to her ribbon. Hose, itchy and too-tight, neutral coloured against her knobby knees. The newly polished flats on Lyra's feet. She resists tugging apart the huge, silken ribbon tying her dark, combed hair.

"Might I have this dance, Lady Lyra Belacqua?"

The Librarian, in his usual formal robes, stands before her and gives her a tiny, lively smile. He bows.

She accepts reluctantly, feeling his old, wrinkled hand clasps hers. It's not that Lyra doesn't like him. She does. All of her earliest memories include the Librarian, and his teachings. His patience with Lyra's misbehavior. He moves in a drowsy-dance with her.

"Are you looking for Lord Asriel…?"

"I thought maybe… …" Lyra huffs, trailing off, still gazing around the Ballroom for that familiar streak of grey. Last she heard, yesterday, he was recovered enough to no longer be confined to the infirmary. Lyra got caught on the roof again, this time by the Chaplain. Mrs. Lonsdale practically had to _restrain_ Lyra to keep her to her quarters. "I thought he'd come. But he hasn't."

"Hmm, yes. I expect Lord Asriel has gotten on his airship." He notices her sullenness. "Did you want him to dance with you?"

A guilty shade of red blooms to Lyra's cheeks.

"N-_No_!"

The Librarian laughs uproariously, throwing his head back, and the crested gecko daemon on his lapel opens her little mouth to laugh just as amused. Lyra flushes harder, lowering her head. "Well, I'm honored to be in his place," he declares.

"May I interrupt?"

"Of course, Master."

"Yes, Master," Lyra echoes, glimpsing the flash of purple, satin fabric. The Librarian and The Master slip their hands inside each other's and cordially kiss. Or they would if they could. She saw them once while Lyra restlessly wandered, lurking atop the Master's Lodging, as both men shared a glass of wine and told stories of their youth and kissed like nothing else mattered.

As if reading her thoughts, the Master's raven daemon examines Lyra with mild skepticism.

"Are you well this evening, Lyra?"

"Yes—" she says shortly, and then Pantalaimon sends her a vexed look. "Yes, Master," she repeats more politely.

"Have you given any thought to St Sophia's College?"

"I dunno."

The Master's lips quirk up. "_Honesty_. It's always refreshing to hear from you, Lyra—ah," he says, nodding to the man entering through the cherrywood, ornate double doors. "We will discuss this with you further on. Good night."

Lyra hurries off, bumping into a number of guests and Scholars who fuss, calling out apologies to them.

She skids herself to Lord Asriel, coiffed and handsome and no longer deathly pale. His light brown hair slicked with oil. His beard trimmed. Stelmaria's fur seems so glossy under the light of the hundreds and hundreds of tapers blazing on the candelabras

He studies her for a long moment, revealing no emotion. "Haven't they taught you how to curtsy?"

"… I don't _LIKE_ to curtsy," Lyra retorts, folding her arms stubbornly.

"And I don't _like_ bowing to any man. No matter who they are." A grin stretches across Lord Asriel's face, wide and benevolent and a touch feral, and instead of feeling daunted by it, Lyra grins back with all of her teeth. "As it so happens."

*

What feels like raindrops splash occasionally to Lyra's forehead.

She finds herself dozing against Lord Asriel's shoulder, failing to keep her eyes open, as he names off the constellations and planets to her. One of his hands protectively holds her back. They've found their way out of the Ballroom, arguing playfully and crowding. Stelmaria now roams around the Library Gardens, keeping intruders away from their stargazing bench. Pantalaimon droops quietly against Lyra's fingers.

"You were born during a thunderstorm," Lord Asriel whispers hoarsely, and she nearly bolts upright. He doesn't sound like himself. Desolate and full of memories. "One of the worst ones I've ever seen at the time. All of the dogs howled through the night."

Lyra shuts her eyes tighter, muscles relaxing, hoping he doesn't notice.

"Your mother didn't care, no. She wanted to welcome you into the world as quickly as possible." A snorting laugh. "Heaven's fury trembled before her. I knew it from the instant I laid eyes on her that nothing could ever stop her. Nothing." Lord Asriel's jaw tightens. His hand runs up Lyra's spine, holding her closer. "I feared her," he admits grimly. "I loved her _and_ I feared her."

She holds her breath.

"Lyra…?"

When there's no answer, Lyra feels him gather her up into her arms, cradling her inside. The warmth spilling over her.

*

"How is your injury, Lord Asriel?" the Master's voice drifts in.

"Better," he says shortly. Stelmaria gives him an exasperated look, and Lord Asriel clears his throat politely. "Yes, it's better since your men saw to it. You have my gratitude. It is a possibility that I would not be alive if it weren't for your aid."

"We are gladdened for your health's improvement."

"I'll be leaving tonight. Sooner the better."

The Master observes him in silence as Lord Asriel gazes down on a sleeping Lyra in barely concealed _longing_. He finally places her gently into the Master's arms, causing the other man to appear surprised at the gesture before smiling close-lipped.

"She admires you, you know," the Master tells him faintly. "Nothing you can do will change that."

Lord Asriel wipes his hands desperately over his face, shutting his eyes, panting. He regains his composure.

"… … Let's hope you're wrong."

More silence as he turns, marching off into the darkness of the Library Gardens. Tears form onto Lyra's cheeks. She weeps to herself, struggling to keep her head above the waters of anguish, and the Master does as he's sworn to do — keep Lyra safe.

*


End file.
